The Golden-Haired Wolf of Winterfell
by sunshine and lollipops
Summary: Back story: Add a set of twins to the Lannister family tree - Amaria and Elisabetta. Elisabetta is a cold, cold woman and her father's favorite assassin. Amaria was married to Benjen Stark briefly. She died giving birth to Beckah Stark (the Golden-Haired Wolf of Winterfell). These will be quick one shots for now. Let's see where it all goes, shall we?
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note: Any and all characters/places/situations familiar to the reader have been shamelessly borrowed from George R.R. Martin and the boys who head up the TV adaptation. Elisabetta Lannister and Beckah Stark are my own creation. Thanks for reading! :)**_

_**I.**_

Elisabetta Lannister arrived late to Winterfell. The invitation had been extended to Casterly Rock as a formality and a courtesy. After all, the Starks were entertaining the majority of the Lannister household tonight. Lord Tywin and his youngest daughter were not expected to appear. But Elisabetta rarely did what was expected of her.

Her twin sister, Amaria, had been the same although less original in her streak of rebellion—marrying a Northern man against the family's wishes, bearing his child, and then dying without a thought to the consequences of any of it. But it was all saccharine nonsense. Like two sides of a coin, one light and one shadowed, Elisabetta's spirit ran a little cooler, a little darker than poor, dead Amaria.

Jon Snow saw the blond-haired woman ride in, her hair braided down one side of her neck in a practical fashion, her posture on the white stallion impossibly graceful. She wore no armor, but carried herself like a battle maiden and wore a skirt split and fitted with legs for riding. She had a bow strapped to her back and iron-tipped arrows in the quiver. A medallion hung around her neck, similar to the one around his cousin Beckah's. In fact, she resembled Beckah more closely than any of the Lannisters. _So this must be Amaria Lannister's twin_, he thought, bitterly taking in the sight of yet another one of these lions. The Imp's stinging words were still ringing in his ears. The little man's words cut deeply and Jon Snow had certainly had his fill of Lannisters for the night.

Elisabetta noticed the boy as she dismounted. He didn't stare but she felt his eyes upon her. And she would have noticed him even if he had given her no second glance. Those eyes were not so unfamiliar to her. Ned Stark, Howland Reed and Elisabetta Lannister still kept one secret in common. _The bastard, then_, she concluded. She offered him a smile as she was free with her smiles, much like Jamie. And much like Jamie's, they were received with too much suspicion. The bastard boy soon turned away.

Elisabetta undid her bow and removed her riding gloves before entering the banquet hall. She was a woman with little patience for empathy and sentimentality, having lost her mother too early and taking after her father in far too many respects from the beginning. Add to that a dark-of-night errand for her father that she would need to attend to shortly and Elisabetta Lannister had no time for old secrets and lost bastards. Thus, she thought no more on the boy in the courtyard.

Ned Stark stood with his brother talking of rumors quietly. The king laughed and made merry in the middle of the revelry. His wife and Lady Stark made painful small talk at the head table. Jamie was prowling. Tyrion was absent. Elisabetta waited by the doorway, taking in the scene with that half-smile on her lips, the hungry look that had forsworn any sort of satiable appetite. If Jamie seemed eternally prowling, his younger sister was ever on the hunt. He saw her first. She waited for him to come to her.

"Little sister, I didn't think you were coming?" he commented evenly, gauging her expression.

"Father wants you back in Casterly Rock by the end of the year," she stated plainly, before answering his baited words with some of her own, "Full armor, dear brother? Are you not among friends?"

"Had our sister lived, perhaps," Jamie answered dryly, looking around the room for the girl, the blond-haired Stark. There she was, with the eldest Stark boy, embracing her father, the dark-haired ranger. He pointed her out to Elisabetta, "There she is. The resemblance is uncanny, isn't it?"

She might as well have been looking at Amaria…or in a mirror. The thin thread that connected the Lannisters to the Starks was here made flesh.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Author's Note: Minor Change to this chapter - I was headed in one direction but I've decided to go a different way on it - considering a couple comments I've received. I'll end up in the same place either way, I think. So I've taken the "gods" out of it for now. Thanks for reading :) **_

_**II.**_

"Lady Lannister, we did not expect you," Ned Stark regarded the woman coolly. Beckah couldn't take her eyes off the woman. She unconsciously drew nearer to Robb, in his shadow if he had one, if the banquet hall wasn't lit by a thousand candles. The Lannister woman looked just like her. She had seen the resemblance in the Queen's face but this was something else altogether. Here was her likeness exactly, perhaps a little older, but there was no denying that the same blood ran through their veins. And here was her mother's sister. Her mother's _twin. _But oh, to see this woman in the flesh made Beckah nervous. She didn't seem quite real, almost a shade, a wild thing from ancient times. The woman's ice blue eyes met her dark brown ones for only a brief moment before Elisabetta Lannister turned her cool gaze elsewhere.

"My father sends his regards, Lord Stark," she answered with gentility. It was hard to tell if the words were sincere or put upon. She turned back to Beckah, while addressing Benjen, "She has your eyes, Ben. But nothing else."

"She _is_ your sister's daughter," Benjen regarded Beckah warmly and the ice around her soul melted somewhat. Robb's steady hand on her arm helped as well. "Beckah, this is your aunt, Elisabetta."

"My lady," Beckah nearly mumbled the words. Remembering herself, she inclined her head slightly in respect. Elisabetta Lannister watched her niece, amused at the young woman's efforts. She was the daughter of a Northern ranger—my gods, if her hair was arranged and her hands were clean, she was acceptable. But perhaps this graceful deference was Catelyn Stark's influence. After all, the girl had grown up in this house…or maybe it was Beckah's own nature, considering the youngest Stark girl ran around the banquet hall like a wild animal.

Beckah received her aunt's mild scrutiny with an anxious silence. She didn't know what to expect or how to act. Lannisters made her uneasy, despite her blood ties to the entire family. The way this woman seemed to look _through _her was unsettling. Beckah forced herself not to fidget nervously. In the meantime, Elisabetta noted Robb's hand on her niece's bare arm. She addressed the young man directly.

"You live dangerously, my young lord Stark," she said simply. "Do you not know what tricks my niece learned while playing above the wall? I've heard they are powerful indeed."

Elisabetta was being somewhat sly, certainly facetious and just a little bit cruel. It wasn't personal, though Beckah might have taken it that way. She lost no love on anyone really; foe and family alike were beyond her sympathies. Even this girl, this last remnant of the twin she shared a womb with. There was something cold and dark about Elisabetta that was shocking to behold. She had no soul, perhaps that was it. Or at least, she'd hidden it away somewhere, buried in the woods, covered in snow, where no one would ever find it.

Her father appreciated this aspect of her character. He certainly saw it early and fostered it well.

Even as a child, Elisabetta was singled out by her dear father for a purpose that no little girl should be groomed for—all clandestine family business and late night errands. Would Beckah have been the same with a father like Tywin? Elisabetta had not spoken idly. Beckah _had_ learned some unnatural things when she was a child, on those trips she took with her father above the wall. She could use those clever hands of hers for more than baking bread and mending clothes if she chose. At least, that's what the wretches at Castle Black whispered to Elisabetta the last time she'd had occasion to visit that tainted place.

But Elisabetta had yet to see Beckah's rumored talents and she was disappointed at how ordinary the young woman appeared. Perhaps raised here, among Northern men who apparently forwent wits for honor—Elisabetta would roll her eyes to the ceiling at this if she were alone—a Lannister might indeed turn into a Stark. _Ha! _Elisabetta could hear her father's dismissive snort in her head.

"I do," Robb Stark stated flatly, without further comment, regarding the Lannister woman with a steadfast expression that Elisabetta saw rarely. Only brave men gave her that look. And there weren't many brave men left in Westeros. Or the rest of the world, for that matter. His steady gaze dared her to continue in this manner. Elisabetta relented. But only because despite herself, she admired the young man's recklessness in defying a woman who had reduced so many older, stronger, wiser men to blood and bones.

_These Northerners, _Elisabetta shook her head knowingly. _Honorable fools, all of them._


	3. Chapter 3

III.

In his half-drunken slumber, Tyrion felt a fly land on his cheek. He swatted it away, without opening his eyes. The swine he was using as a pillow grunted in its own sleep but didn't stir. The fly returned, damnable thing – without buzzing, without learning its lesson. He swatted at it again. But in vain. Finally, Tyrion opened his eyes to find Elisabetta standing above him, fully dressed and wide awake, left elbow leaning on the rail of the pen, chin held lazily in the hand attached to it. Her right hand was more occupied, clutching a long, brown and black feather that she'd plucked from the stable floor. The feather was near enough his face that he now understood the tenacity and nerve of the "fly" that had been plaguing him. His sister nearly smiled.

"Good morning," she purred casually.

"You look like Cersei when you smile like that," Tyrion muttered. It wasn't a compliment. He squinted against the morning light spilling into the shed that had served as his bedroom last night. He blinked a few times hoping that she'd disappear, a mid-morning apparition brought on by too much wine, and he could roll over and go back to sleep. No such luck. "Don't you sleep?"

"Yes," she answered simply, without elaboration. Her short, femme fatale manner was always irritating but no more so than when he had better things to do. Like sleep off a night of heavy drinking.

"But when?" he grumbled, more to himself than to her. The Lannister siblings all had complicated relationships, that was certain. The unnatural love that bonded the eldest twins contrasted well with the pure hatred that Cersei held for the youngest. And while Jamie and Tyrion approached a brotherly affection, Elisabetta and Cersei had not spoken two words between them in decades. This was not out of resentment or bitterness or jealousy or anything so dramatic. It was merely a product of two sisters who had absolutely no regard for each other. So it was.

But Tyrion and Elisabetta's relationship fell somewhere in between, as they were both monsters in their own way, suffering from physical and moral deformities respectively. Though one fell into their fate and the other, it could be argued, sought it out. Still, Tyrion didn't begrudge Elisabetta her chosen profession, as their father's favorite little assassin. The moral complexities of her soul might be compromised sure but then look at Jamie and Cersei…Tyrion sat up, halfway anyway.

"Are you going to tell me what you want? Or do I have to guess?" he asked. He continued, "Because if you want me to help you murder the entire Stark household or go track down some lesser lord who insulted Father in some absolutely unacceptable way and now, of course, must pay…well, I'm just not up to it this morning. You'll have to find your brawn elsewhere."

"You _are_ amusing, you know," Elisabetta commented lightly, with another one of those infuriating half-smiles. "I don't understand why father gives you such a hard time."

"Have you met Tywin Lannister?" Tyrion asked rhetorically, sardonically and, down deep there somewhere, a little bitterly. Elisabetta just shrugged, having never felt the sting of their father's rejection herself.

"I'm headed to Castle Black," she answered him, finally. "I need a word with the Old Bear and he's certainly not going to come down here to give it to me…you should come with me."

"To Castle Black?…no, I don't believe that's any place that interests me, sister dear. All boys up there and not much variation in the wine, I'd imagine," Tyrion yawned, still squinting at that bright, bright light that was so good at finding every nook and cranny in the place. The sun could go to hell. "I think you have me confused with Benjen Stark. Or maybe that bastard of Ned's."

"They'll be along, of course," Elisabetta replied, nodding. "But I'm leaving this morning. I don't travel well with others."

Tyrion gave a hmm-ing sound of understated agreement.

She continued, "I didn't see you last night and I doubt our paths will cross again for some time"—she gave him the most genuine of her smiles yet—"so I wanted to say hello. And goodbye."

"I'm touched," Tyrion stated flatly.

"No, you're not," Elisabetta replied, with a laugh. "But goodbye in any case, Tyrion. Watch yourself with these wolves."

"Don't worry. My clever tongue will keep me out of trouble," Tyrion fell back on his makeshift pillow, sleep beckoning him back with such sweet, sweet arms. Even with the pigs. Even in the mud. Perhaps especially then. Elisabetta threw the black and brown feather into the pen. It landed on his head and he promptly threw the damn thing into the slop pail at his right side. She left the shed, grinning. He mumbled after her, already halfway to dreamland, "Me go to Castle Black, Elisabetta? At this time in the morning? And you call _me_ amusing."


	4. Chapter 4

_**IV.**_

_She was running. Of course, she was running. Branches and thorns, ravens, red wings and everything covered in snow and dead silence. She had been crying. Her cheeks were streaked with narrow lines of ice where the tears had frozen in place. She was so very cold and her bones ached with the heaviness of prolonged exposure to the blighted winter. But she couldn't let them find her. She would not let them find her. _

_She stopped under a grove of evergreens, her right hand grasping at the nearest sapling for support. Her gloveless hands had turned against her miles and miles back and her fingers refused to curl around anything but themselves. She bit back a cry of pain and held both hands to her chest, as if she might find the last embers of warmth within her own flesh. She was silent, so silent. An unnatural hush lingered in the wild forest but she knew better than to believe she was alone. _

_She had run too far this time. They chased her far north, farther than she'd ever been before. And now she was in unfamiliar territory, alone and out of time. They were right behind her. But her legs were lead weights and she was freezing to death as she stood beneath that evergreen tree, clothed in only thin leather boots and a blue silk dress that would have needed a cloak on even a mild midsummer night. _

_A distant crash in the underbrush! It echoed in the clear air and the dark night. She bit her lip to keep from crying out in despair and readied herself. Her feet moved numbly as she slid out from beneath the grove. Ice tears pricked at the sides of her tired eyes and her vision blurred. Snow from the lower branches fell onto her hair and eyelashes as she stumbled out from beneath the trees blindly. _

_The footsteps behind her hastened their pace. She sprinted through the snow but she was slowing too quickly. They were too close! She could hear their cold breath, their whispering voices as they called out her name…_

"Beckah!"

She woke with a start, sitting half-way up in her own bed in Winterfell and taking in her surroundings with wide-eyed confusion until her fuzzy, dream-cluttered mind adjusted back to reality. She wasn't in the woods. No one was chasing her. She was home. Safe.

But why'd her skin feel like ice?

"Beckah! Wake up!" It was Robb's voice at her door, and he sounded grim. A shadow of anticipatory dread fluttered across her soul like butterfly wings on the surface of a still pond. Something had happened.

"What is it?" she called back as she rose from the bed, throwing a heavy wool around her shoulders. The air was relatively warm but her dream had left her chilled straight through. She opened the door immediately, finding Robb behind it, his face drawn and manner defeated.

"It's Bran," he managed, his voice faltering. "He's fallen from the tower."


	5. Chapter 5

_**VI.**_

It was nearing midnight at Castle Black.

Lord Commander Mormont had retired to his chambers hours ago. Night fell early these days, at the heels of twilight. The black and ragged dress of the witching hours suited the castle naturally. The place itself seemed all too willing to slip back into them after a prolonged summer season. The men that lived there were less willing but the weather took its orders from a greater power than might be found among them.

Jeor Mormont was still awake, fully dressed and lingering by his window, staring out into the darkness. As he grew older, he found that he slept less. Even on calm nights when the weather was mild and the men relatively quiet, with no recent wildling sightings above the Wall and no recent blood-feud skirmishes in the ranks, he found his mind was restless and his worries many. And this night, there was much to ponder.

Ser Royce and the other two rangers hadn't yet returned from above the Wall.

It was not the first time that rangers had gone missing above the Wall. But this time felt different. Winter was coming. Everyone felt it. Perhaps the icy chill in the air added a sense of dread about the whole thing. Or perhaps the dread came from some place deeper, previously buried in the earth itself.

The Old Gods had been as silent as a fallow grave for a long, long time, and the Lord Commander's approach to his forefather's faith was less fervent and more practical. However, he had seen more than could be explained in his life and he wasn't arrogant enough to dismiss a vague, eerie feeling like this. He hadn't been able to shake it since he heard Royce and the others were missing. It was as if the icy fingers of something sinister had brushed against his ribs and were slowly wrapping around the strings of his heart.

A soft knock sounded at his bedroom door. The Lord Commander was roused from his vigil at the window. A flickering change of expression passed his craggy, deeply-lined features only briefly. Who would disturb him at this hour? His steward would be long asleep. Maester Aemon perhaps?

With reserve, he opened the door to find a woman standing behind it—a blond-haired woman with eyes the color a frigid winter morning. It was always shocking to see a woman at Castle Black—doubly so when that woman had the icy beauty of Elisabetta Lannister.

"Good evening," she greeted him formally with a slight nod of her head, as if in respect, though Jeor Mormont knew her better than that. He was struck speechless by her sudden presence. Here, in this place, at this hour. She smiled slightly at his bewilderment, pleased to be able to stir any surprise in the stoic Old Bear, before brushing past him and entering his bedroom.

She cast a glance around the room, noting the fur and leather surroundings with that intelligent, ever watchful gaze of hers, before turning to him and saying plainly, "We have things to discuss, my lord."


	6. Chapter 6

_**V.**_

"You wanted to see me, Uncle?" Beckah stood in the doorway, her hands clasped before her, golden hair spilling around her shoulders, Northern talisman always around her neck. The three-eyed raven on its iron face watched him curiously. As did her dark eyes, her father Benjen's eyes, the only noticeable Stark feature on the girl. Though the heart that beat within her chest was no lion's heart. The golden-haired wolf of Winterfell smiled at him as only she may, chasing away all tension, bringing a smile to his own lips.

"I'll be leaving for King's Landing in the morning…," Ned began, then took a deep breath. "Arya and Sansa will be coming with me."

"…but you want me to stay in Winterfell." It was a statement. She had the air and posture of a much older woman, she might have been seventy instead of seventeen. She said the words calmly, as if she'd already worked it out in her head. He nodded.

"Should anything happen—and god's be good, it won't—but should anything happen, the Lannisters would take you first," he said bluntly.

"Because I'm a Lannister?"

"Because you are Tywin Lannister's granddaughter," he stressed. "And because in the summer of the year, with its long days and warm nights, the men of the North forget that you are anything but a Stark. The Lannisters are clever. If a conflict were to come up and you were ransomed, I would have no banner men rally to my side as they would with Sansa or Arya. But I could not give you up so we would all be lost."

Beckah's intelligent eyes flickered to the north-facing window and back again. "Winter _is_ coming. Sometimes I shiver to think of it…"

He opened his arms and she walked into them, embracing her uncle for perhaps the last time. This man was more a father to her than her black-clad ranger father had ever been and she held him tightly. After a moment, he pulled her back from him.

"You are of the old Stark blood, I see it in those eyes of yours…even if the rest of you is the spitting image of Amaria Lannister," he said kindly. "I would not think to command you, even Lord of Winterfell, but I would ask…watch over the little lords. Bran will need your strength if he wakes…" Ned choked on the last words and Beckah covered his hand on her shoulder with her own, the comforting on her side now.

"Not _if_ he wakes, my lord uncle," she insisted, her gaze steady and direct. "_When_ he wakes."

"I almost believe it when you say it like that, Beckah," Ned half-smiled.

"Believe it…," she insisted. "And I pledge myself to our family and to the boys, as you wish. Though I would have watched out for them even if you hadn't asked."

"I know. Take care of yourself, love." He gave her one more tight embrace. Muffled against his broad chest, the golden-haired beauty whispered the same and for a moment, pushed away any thoughts to the contrary.


End file.
